Scylla and Charybdis
by Silver Sandals
Summary: Sometimes England feels like she's losing control. Meanwhile, France is kind of going crazy. Genderbend, femslash, crossdressing, incest, privateers, philosophers.  France/England, England/Scotland, France/Ireland


**Title:** Scylla and Charybdis  
**Characters/Pairings:** FrUK, slight England/Scotland, Ireland  
**Rating:** very light R perhaps?  
**Summary:** Sometimes England feels like she's losing control. Meanwhile, France is kind of going crazy.  
**Warnings:** genderbend, femslash, strong language, crossdressing, brief incest, privateers, philosophers.  
**Notes:** Written for the aph_historyswap on livejournal, for chromaticwish.

* * *

England knows this is wrong.

She stands before the best mirror in the house, a modern thing of bronze and utility, and she remembers a time when such a large piece of glass would have been considered a miracle. She pauses for a long moment, looks, tries to remember. Remember painted lips, lace collars, corsets. England blinks.

A man looks back at her.

* * *

"You are just as ugly in masculine attire, darling, although I suppose now you can devote less time to plucking your eyebrows," France tells her lazily, sprawled in the chair like the tart she is.

England growls, or tries to, and sips her coffee. It's bitter and coarse and altogether inferior to tea, which is probably why France likes it so much. Why aren't they in a teahouse anyway? If they were in a teahouse this ridiculous charade would be unnecessary.

She voices this opinion to France. The insufferable woman gleefully launches into her customary "oh Angleterre you are such a Philistine" routine. "Listen," France says. "Listen to the ideas. The free discussions, between all levels of society."

"You are a very strange Nation," England grumbles. "You almost seem to welcome sedition."

"Intellectual progress, dear, though I can see why you might get them confused."

England snorts at that. "And what, exactly, has changed since Elizabeth's day? I want only loyalty to the crown. Intelligence is not required."

"And how are the children, anyway?"

England sets her cup down, at that. There is something biting in France's voice, only vaguely concealed by her veil of disinterested sarcasm. Her eyes gleam, glitter almost, sharp and hard. England takes another sip to disguise her confusion, holding the porcelain very carefully. "As- as you would expect. America is being- difficult."

"Oh, good for her," France laughs, and now she is so studiously disinterested that England is starting to feel suspicious.

France is a whore, England thinks, just look at her, rouged and powdered and beribboned, allowed into this place of near-sacred masculinity through the parading of her body. But England is discomforted; surely she herself is no better, with this lie, this illegality, this mockery of something she is not.

More disturbing is how damn sinful France is looking, spread out like that, and in what detail England can imagine that mouth doing more productive things than coyly sipping bad coffee. And oh dear Lord the Women's Petition Against Coffee may have to revise its facts, because the terrible drink is certainly not causing any sort of impotence in England at least.

"I'm finished with this horrible excuse for a beverage," she mutters. "Shall we go?"

And to kiss France in the shade of an avenue, or in the brightness of a square, and not care for who may be watching, is its own sort of freedom, and England finds the rush of it nearly sickening.

* * *

_"What God hath conjoined let no man separate. I am the husband and the whole isle is my lawful wife; I am the head and it is my body; I am the shepherd and it is my flock. I hope therefore that no man will think that I, a Christian King under the Gospel, should be a polygamist and husband to two wives; that I being the head should have a divided or monstrous body or that being the shepherd to so fair a flock should have my flock parted in two."_

_"Gadzooks, like I'd want to be his wife," England mutters._

_Scotland shakes her red head in fierce amusement. "I cannae understand half o' it, but Jamie seems ta want us t' be wed."_

_They both laugh at that, knowing they'll be at each other's throats soon enough, but England quickly falls back into morbid silence. She misses Bess._

_She looks at the boy making the speech and wonders if he dreams of his Nations, if he imagines Scotland's lips on England's neck, England's hands tangled in fire-red curls. She shudders. _

* * *

"This, this... reference book of yours," England hisses, infuriated, "it is a pathetically obvious imitation of Chambers' _Cyclopaedia_, which I might add is an altogether more worthy pair of volumes."

France blinks at her sideways, long lashes fluttering. "...so? The _Encyclopédie_ will be larger. Also, it has a longer name."

"No," England gasps, horrified. "That can't be right."

"Admit it Angleterre, in Paris we do things more _thoroughly_."

The next time France is in Edinburgh, she is unexpectedly hit on the head with a brick. On closer inspection, this proves to be a book. The cover is embossed with florid letters: _The Encyclopædia Britannica_.

"It's got my name on it," England tells her smugly. "Has yours got your name on it?"

Wincing and rubbing her head, France mutters, "Um."

"Thought not."

* * *

"'Republic of Letters'?" England scoffs. "What rot."

"Prove it," replies France with a smirk. "Come partake of the salons of Paris. I guarantee you will be dazzled."

"Ha!" the shorter lady cries, "like I'd want anything to do with your decadent dens of sedition!"

"Like anyone with more sanity than I would wish to invite you," her companion murmurs.

But two weeks later a beautifully printed invitation arrives in the mail, and England finds herself in France's apartment quite by accident.

"The salonierres will do anything to snare a glamorous foreigner of great wit and renown," France ponders.

"Well, ah, I'm very honored," England says, flattered despite herself. She grins rakishly at her reflection, adjusting her medals and winking at an imaginary duchess.

"Of course, you're English," France continues, "so it's a miracle I managed to buy you an invite at all. Now just don't open your mouth all evening and it should go smoothly."

England scowls, and turns away from the mirror.

* * *

"My, what a handsome escort you have tonight," the lady of the house comments with a light laugh. England turns a dark red and concentrates on looking sullen. France thankfully passes no comment, just rests her weight a little heavier on England's arm, and considering she's several inches taller this is somewhat painful. England grimaces.

England bites her tongue when she is introduced to the clever young editors of the _Encyclopédie_. One is slightly more rakish than the other, but they both wear the same bright, irritating smile. England glares in their direction as France engages a poet in conversation. Well, England revises, the poet talks and France smiles inappropriately back. That's probably the definition of dinner conversation in this company.

Halfway through the second course the encyclopedists suddenly erupt in a loud and good-natured argument. From what England can make out, the younger one argues that the material world of the senses is the only thing that can definitely be said to exist and so is the only thing that matters. The other exclaims that on the contrary, nothing seen can be trusted and so nothing can be said to exist outside the conscious mind.

England feels her face going redder and redder with the effort not to speak. Finally she can no longer stand it, and she knocks her chair over as she rises to her feet. "But where is _God_ in this dilemma?" she asks desperately. "Where is the eternal _soul_? Isn't that the most important question?"

A chill descends over the gathering. France slowly closes her eyes.

"Why did I bring you again?" France mutters rhetorically a few hours later. "Why did I possibly think you might benefit from the experience?"

"Aren't you disturbed by them?" England exclaims. "They preach against all authority, not just the Church's!"

France sighs. "Progress, _ma cherie_. Should we fight the flow of ideas? All men have the right to think!"

"And what about women?" England asks.

"Of course women too, we control the salons! We focus the creative energy of the _philosophes_-"

"-but, I notice, you don't actually speak yourself," England shoots out quickly, tripping over the words in her growing anger. "You just smile sweetly and play with their feet under the table!"

France laughs scornfully, but she pales, just slightly. "Like women are more valued in London?"

"At least I'm not a hypocrite," England spits.

France stares at her for a moment, then turns on her heel and vanishes.

England makes her way home alone, in the rain.

* * *

_England arrives in the town tired and exhausted, with a half-dead horse, and finds it somewhat deserted. A small, grubby child sits desolate, back to a mud wall. "What's the quickest way to get to the castle?" she asks it, panting._

_It points. "Can't you see the flames?"_

_England looks up, swears colorfully, and clambers back onto the horse, sweaty hands slipping on the reins. Her heart thuds painfully as she whips the poor beast up the hill. There's a dull, pulsing orange light at the top, just about visible in the gathering dusk and clouds of black smoke, and when the animal finally drags them over the lip of the rubble she stares in blank horror. The tower structure has become a raging inferno, a furnace of hell perhaps, and England falls from the horse and prepares to hurl herself into that underworld, for Christ knows she deserves it._

_"Albion!" a voice admonishes, and there is a hand on her arm. England falls into Scotland's arms, sobbing in relief. The taller woman's dress is a little singed, but apart from that she appears to be whole. "Ye'll have ta find a new dungeon for me now, Skoosh," she says sardonically._

_"Who did this," England growls._

_"Fat man, name of Jean Bart. Dunkirker, by the accent. Privateer. And-" she pauses for a moment, tiredly, "yer lady France was wi' him. The gailey might still be in the harbor."_

_"Damn," England screams, and makes to get on the horse again. It sighs and falls over. England stares at it a moment, then turns sharply. "And she's not my lady!" she yells over her shoulder as she runs._

_The fleet isn't exactly there when she arrives at the shore, but she can see a hint of a sail on the horizon, so she commandeers a sloop that appears to have arrived late as usual. The Dunkirk privateer has a bigger boat- several actually-, but she'll worry about that when she has to._

_Which is soon enough, she finds. She reflects on the ironies of her situation as she is roughly hauled over the deck of the French flagship. Bart, it turns out, is an extremely imposing figure, astonishingly tall and corpulent. His loud laugh rings grotesquely in her ears, but it isn't quite as annoying as France's oily chuckles._

_"If Francis Drake were still alive-"_

_"But he's not, is he?"_

_England looks up, into bitter green eyes._

_"Oh," she says, "fuck."_

_Ireland grins lopsidedly at her and runs a hand through his curly red hair, wound even more tightly than Scotland's. "Yeah, that's about right," he says. Smirks. No, France is the one who's smirking. She leans in and gives Ireland a somewhat wet kiss. Ireland puts his big hands on her ample hips and vigorously responds._

_"Please," England groans, "please, just kill me now."_

* * *

_"If Henry Morgan were still alive-"_  
"But he's not," France whispers soothingly, her pistol tracing England's cheek. They're so close together, in the tangled rigging of two ships, a great one falling, a small one leaping. England's aware of so many tastes, salt and blood and steel. "My Surcouf is." France smells of sweat and fish and a bit of madness, still, though her blue eyes are piercingly cold. "Outnumbered three to one and yet we're still winning, Angleterre, why do you suppose that is?"

England feels herself sinking, feels freezing waters closing over her head without a ripple. She gasps, "You won't take the _Kent_. I'll sink it first."

She can hardly see through the stinging wind but she feels France smile. "Don't you understand, Angleterre?" she chides, in that same voice she once used to mock England's lack of culture. "You've _lost. Permanently_. You've lost _America_ and you've lost the oceans, you've lost control of the _seas_ you poor, sad fool-"

England spits in her face and France shoves her off of the rigging.

It's a long, long way to fall.

* * *

_England had thought that without a corset she would breathe easier. She had imagined the breeches and braces would give her tangible power and confidence. But the cravat is tied far too tight and the collar is stiff and itching and her shoes pinch. It may be fitted but it does not fit. Is not fit, either._

_Yet the Prussian king calls her Mr. Kirkland and accepts her as a major shareholder in the East India Company, allows her to sit in on discussions of strategy, and so the costume serves its purpose._

_Prussia herself is nowhere to be seen. England suspects she is somewhere in Bohemia, kicking Austria's face in. It is a pleasant image._

_England sits in the hot room in Bavaria, itching in her gentleman's suit-_

_-blood spatters on her soldier's uniform in the humid air of Madras, and she swings up her bayonet to block France's downward thrust, close and sweating in the narrow streets-_

_-Canada's fists knot in England's red vest and the child- young woman, really- screams with a pain that tears at England's heart-_

_-she lays her weary head in her hands and thinks that world wars are really quite a bad idea and she doesn't really want to have any more of them._

* * *

Paris looks- different now. Nevertheless, it is hard to find fault with the running of the place. It's orderly and calm, at least as much as Paris is ever orderly and calm. They walk, down through the elegant covered arcades of the Jardin du Palais Royal, although England guesses it is probably not called that, any more.

France looks a great deal better than the last time England saw her. Her eyes are still a little red, her face a little pale, but she stands straight and without pain, and why wouldn't she with half of Europe bent to her will?

England imagines it, the two of them, standing a little way apart in an apparent bow to decorum, their diaphanous white gowns giving them a sort of neoclassical innocence they most certainly do not deserve. Although the illusion might be broken by England's hair, which is growing back in ragged clumps. France, England thinks, does not look good in white. It is so very unsuited to her handsome features. Nevertheless, it is a warm summer day, and here they stand, like nymphs, like sisters, like friends.

"You expect me to be impressed by your little collection?" England sniffs. "Don't think I didn't notice half of it was stolen."

"I don't expect anything of you, Angleterre," France shoots back, "least of all art appreciation. I do not know what possessed me to send that invitation. I should have much preferred Italy's company."

"Don't think I don't notice what you're doing over there, either."

"It is not your business what I do with Italy. Please do not stick your nose out over the Channel, I would hate for you to sprain something."

"It is _all_ of our business when you try and _change_ the _shape_ of the _world_!" England's voice rises higher and higher. It's starting to sound shrill, even to her ears.

France's eyes widen, and England can see the madness still in them, not gone at all, just hiding behind reflective mirrors and calm broad streets. For a moment she is certain France is going to hit her, and she flinches from a blow that never comes. She opens her eyes slowly. France is staring at her.

"Oh God," England says, only a little bit broken, "I've missed you."

Maybe she only says it to surprise France, to break that unnerving calm. It's certainly worked. England reflects with a mounting sense of embarrassment and apprehension that this is probably the first time since the sixth century she has said something to France that did not mean I hate you, at all.

England waits for the pain, for the cutting remark, the disbelieving laugh, or worse, anger at being mocked, that would turn her words into nothing more than a cruel joke.

France gently takes England's hand, and for a moment they just lean into each other.

It's awkward and uncomfortable. England rests her head on France's shoulder and closes her eyes. She can feel the other Nation's hair tickling her nose. France smells of dirt and the dust of Egypt. I am tired of fighting you, she wants to say.

But if we stop, she imagines France answering, what are we then?

* * *

_England whispers to herself. To herself in her skin, and herself in the mirror, and herself in the man on the throne downstairs. The scissors do not make much noise as they pare away her curls._

_"I am not- any one's wife- I am not- any one's mistress- I am a nation, and I-"_

_There, that is the last of it._

_"-make my own alliances."_

* * *

So I've decided how I'm going to do notes in the future: all of these terms you can find on Wikipedia. I will include selections from their Wikipedia pages. This is to make my life easier :(

-English coffeehouses in the seventeenth and eighteen centuries: "

For the price of a penny, customers purchased a cup of coffee and admission to a coffeehouse, where men engaged in conversation. Topics discussed within the coffeehouses included politics and political scandals, daily gossip, fashion, current events, and debates surrounding philosophy and the natural sciences. Historians often associate English coffeehouses, during the 17th and 18th centuries, to the intellectual and cultural history of the Age of Enlightenment.

Throughout their conception, coffeehouses acted as an alternate sphere for intellectual thought, supplementary to the university. Also having a political significance, political groups frequently used English coffeehouses as meeting places. Historians agree that a diverse demographic of customers frequented English coffeehouses. Relative equality was believed to have existed among patrons of coffeehouses despite station, as one could participate in conversation regardless of class, rank, or political leaning. Socially similar to English alehouses or inns, the historian Brian Cowan describes English coffeehouses as "places where people gathered to drink coffee, learn the news of the day, and perhaps to meet with other local residents and discuss matters of mutual concern." However, the absence of alcohol created an atmosphere in which one could engage in sober conversation.

-:The Encyclopédie: "As of 1750 the full title was _Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, par une société de gens de lettres, mis en ordre par M. Diderot de l'Académie des Sciences et Belles-Lettres de Prusse, et quant à la partie mathématique, par M. d'Alembert de l'Académie royale des Sciences de Paris, de celle de Prusse et de la Société royale de Londres._ The title page was amended as D'Alembert acquired more titles.

...many contributors saw the _Encyclopédie_ as a vehicle for covertly destroying superstitions while overtly providing access to human knowledge. In _ancien regime_ France it caused a storm of controversy, due mostly to its tone of religious tolerance. The _Encyclopédie_ praised Protestant thinkers and challenged Catholic dogma, and classified religion as a branch of philosophy, not as the ultimate source of knowledge and moral advice.

At the same time, the _Encyclopédie_ was a vast compendium of knowledge, notably on the technologies of the period, describing the traditional craft tools and processes."

(The two young men are Denis Diderot and Jean le Rond d'Alembert, their philosophies Materialism and Transcendentalism.)

-the Republic of Letters: **"**Republic of Letters (_Respublica literaria_) is most commonly used to define intellectual communities in the late seventeenth and eighteenth century in Europe and America. It especially brought together the intellectuals of Age of Enlightenment, or "philosophes" as they were called in France. The Republic of Letters emerged in the seventeenth century as a self-proclaimed community of scholars and literary figures that stretched across national boundaries but respected differences in language and culture. These communities that transcended national boundaries formed the basis of a metaphysical Republic."

(The meetings were held in salons usually run by women. It is controversial to what extent these women can be said to have influenced Enlightenment thought.)

-The Union of the Crowns: "The Union of the Crowns (March 1603) was the accession of James VI, King of Scots, to the throne of England, thus associating Scotland and England under one monarch. ...this was merely a personal or dynastic union, the Crowns remaining both distinct and separate, despite James's best efforts to create a new "imperial" throne of 'Great Britain'. England and Scotland continued to be independent states, despite sharing a monarch, until the Acts of Union in 1707 during the reign of the last monarch of the Stuart Dynasty, Queen Anne."

-The Nine Years' War: "The Nine Years' War (1688–97) – often called the War of the Grand Alliance, Palatine Succession War, or the War of the League of Augsburg[3] – was a major war of the late 17th century fought between King Louis XIV of France, and a European-wide coalition, the Grand Alliance, led by the Anglo-Dutch Stadtholder-King William III, Holy Roman Emperor Leopold I, King Charles II of Spain, Victor Amadeus II of Savoy, and the major and minor princes of the Holy Roman Empire. The Nine Years' War was fought primarily on mainland Europe and its surrounding waters, but it also encompassed a theatre in Ireland, where William III and James II struggled for control of the British Isles, and a minor campaign between French and English settlers and their Indian allies in colonial North America. The War was the second of Louis XIV's three major wars."

(The fanon about Scotland being held captive in a dungeon is not mine, it is borrowed without permission from Mithrigil on Livejournal, I hope she doesn't mind but I discovered Jean Bart burned down a Scottish castle once and it just seemed to click)

(The second pirate scene is from the War of the First Coalition, between France and just about everybody, after the French Revolution.)

-And the Treaty of Amiens: "The Treaty of Amiens temporarily ended hostilities between the French Republic and the United Kingdom during the French Revolutionary Wars. It was signed in the city of Amiens on 25 March 1802 (Germinal 4, year X in the French Revolutionary Calendar), by Joseph Bonaparte and the Marquess Cornwallis as a "Definitive Treaty of Peace". The consequent peace lasted only one year, and was the only period of peace during the so-called 'Great French War' between 1793 and 1815.[1] Under the treaty, the United Kingdom (UK) recognised the French Republic; George III had only two years previously dropped the English crown's historical claim, dating back to 1340 and Edward III, to the now-defunct French Kingdom. Together with the Treaty of Lunéville (1801), the Treaty of Amiens marked the end of the Second Coalition, which had waged war against Revolutionary France since 1798."

(There must be FrUK fic of this already, surely?)

-The title is a reference to a Gillray cartoon, _Britannia between Scylla & Charybdis. or— The Vessel of the Constitution steered clear of the Rock of Democracy, and the Whirlpool of Arbitrary-Power._


End file.
